Trauma
by Tony Vernon-Smith
Summary: Sure, everyone's seen First Contact. But did anyone ever wonder what happened afterwards, when they had to clean up the mess and deal with their demons? And with Picard and Data, Troi has a tough counseling job on her hands...My first ST story. I can't af
1. Chapter 1

**Trauma**

"Do you know what trauma is?"

"Of course, Counselor," said Data, his golden eyes flicking momentarily to the side. " 'Trauma' is a shock, an ordeal, distress. It is usually caused by an emotionally trying experience of some kind. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder—"

Troi held up her hand to forestall a lengthier explanation. It was well known among the _Enterprise _crew that Lieutenant Commander Data was something of a chatterbox. "That's good, Data. And you know, of course, that once someone has had a traumatic experience, it is generally considered appropriate for them to go to counseling?"

"Yes."

"Then…can you understand now why you are here?"

She watched sympathetically as the android squirmed in his chair, his eyes riveted to a painting on the wall. This was probably as hard for her as it was for Data, but it had to be done.

Data's eyes came back to her, his mouth thinned. "Counselor. With all due respect, I do not believe that I could possibly suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The usual symptoms and effects—disturbances in sleep patterns, loss of appetite, lack of concentration—cannot be applied to me. I have run a full diagnostic since the event, and all systems are functioning within normal parameters."

Troi sighed and shook her head, dark ringlets cascading in the dim light. "Data…" she said softly. "Of course you know that I am an empath. I sense others' emotions." She paused. "I can also sense the _lack _of them."

That did it. Data flinched, and unwittingly his positronic brain supplied a comment worthy of the situation.

_You're becoming more Human all the time, Data. Now you're learning how to lie._

_She _had said that. He could still see her face—cold, blue-marbled with the cold life that was Borg, with ancient, insatiable eyes of silver. She never stopped wanting. And that day she had wanted him.

Troi, watching him, felt through her lowered shields his confusing surge of emotions: anger, regret, hate and desire, all swirled into one. And with it, a rising panic. The one other time she had tried to talk with him about it she had been blocked, because he had shut off his emotion chip. She had almost not caught the minute twitch of his head, the faint computerlike _beep_, but she had certainly felt the sudden void in which he operated. Before the emotions had cut off she had felt his panic, and now she was feeling it again.

"Data," she said softly.

He looked up from his intense study of his hands, fingers interlaced in a nod to Human convention. Troi could remember how when she first met him he would still forget occasionally to put any expression in his face, his voice.

"Don't turn off the emotion chip."

Golden eyes narrowed on either side of that long, faintly absurd nose. He looked oddly like Lore in the moment before he smoothed the expression over. He was getting steadily better at controlling his reactions over the two years he had had the emotion chip, and Troi suddenly felt an odd pang of regret…Data was losing his innocence. In fact, the experiences of the past week had all but shattered it.

"I do not wish to talk," he stated decisively.

She smiled reassuringly, leaned forward a little. "I know you don't wish to, Data. But it would be better for you if you did."

Data was looking at the painting again. Troi knew that with his superior vision he could see every brushstroke in even this faint light, and in fact was quite capable of copying it from memory, stroke for stroke. The quiet stretched on for a few more moments, during with Troi wondered if the android was capable of feeling discomfort at the awkward silence, and then Data's gaze came back to her.

"Captain Picard has not been sleeping well," he stated.

"No, he hasn't, Data. How did you know?"

"I am equipped with medical diagnostics. His endorphins are significantly lower than normal. Also he is more irritable. There is a 13.72 percent discrepancy with the way he moves when rested versus the way he moves when tired." He stopped, gave her a sidelong glance, fishing, in his naively obvious way, for something. "Am I correct in assuming that you are also counseling him?"

Troi sighed. "Yes, you are, Data."

"I would imagine that this recent…ordeal…has resurrected memories of Locutus," he said flatly.

Troi sighed again, wondering whether all androids were this stubborn, or only Doctor Soong's creations. "Data, are you aware that stalling for time is a human characteristic?"

"Yes," said Data. Was that a trace of bitterness in his voice? "I am aware…but _she _was not."

Troi very nearly shuddered at the emotions that accompanied the word _she_. Data's eyes were narrowed again, with anger this time. He looked quickly down into his lap and said quietly, "I have not activated my dreaming program since the end of the last mission."

Troi said gently, "Because you are afraid of what you will dream about?"

Data looked up at her again. He had a disconcerting habit of sitting absolutely still when focused on one thing, not twitching or fidgeting as organic beings did. Troi was relieved to see that his eyes were no longer crimped with anger, although she could still sense it roiling around inside him.

"I know what I will dream about," he said softly. "As I do not have a subconscious corresponding to the parameters of organic humanoids, I dream of whatever is foremost on my mind." His eyes held hers, daring her to make the obvious connection.

Troi made it. "And right now the Borg are foremost on your mind."

"Yes." He paused. "It is strange. I have fought them before, with my bare hands if necessary, but I have never felt…afraid of them. As I am now." His gaze asked her the question before it was spoken. "Will I ever stop being afraid, Counselor?"

An honest question deserved an honest answer. Troi leaned forward and spoke softly. "Probably not. I dread facing the Borg, because every time I do I can feel the fear of the entire crew. It's a natural reaction, Data. It's natural to fear losing yourself to someone else—being subsumed into the mind of another. Because every sentient being values their own mind over even bodily freedom. And to lose both…" She trailed off.

"It is their greatest fear," said Data, nodding. He had his 'suddenly enlightened' expression on again.

"Exactly." Troi paused. "Everyone is very worried about you, Data."

"They have been avoiding me." It was not an accusation, simply a statement. "Even Geordi. They do not want to talk about it. Is that a normal Human reaction?"

"Yes, Data, I'm sorry to say it is. I don't exactly know why. Perhaps it's an atavistic throwback to the prehistoric days, when the sick and wounded were shunned. Survival of the fittest."

Data looked up quickly. "Or perhaps it is not that. Perhaps it is because they are aware of how much time I spent with…_her_, and they know I considered her offer—"

"You considered her offer?" asked Troi gently.

She felt an ugly surge of shame. If Data could have flushed, he would have.

"Yes," he said, so softly that she had to lean forward to catch the words. "For a time, I was tempted."

"How long a time?"

The android smiled faintly. "0.68 seconds, Counselor." At Troi's involuntary smile of amusement, he added quickly, "For an android, that is nearly a lifetime."

"Data…it's normal to be tempted. Everyone is. What matters is that you are strong enough to overcome the temptation. It's part of being Human, Data."

_Don't be tempted by flesh._

Data's glowing yellow eyes held hers for a moment, and then he shifted and began to stand. "Thank you, Counselor. However, I do not think I am ready to talk about it. I need some time to think."

"I'll be seeing you tomorrow night, then," said Troi, and rose. "Same time."

Data nodded. He was looking at the painting again. "Thank you, Counselor," he said, and left the room. The doors swooshed shut behind him.

Deanna Troi stood in the middle of the room and shook her head. _Stubborn, stubborn Data!_

As the door to his quarters wooshed open Data could hear Spot's questioning meow. The cat jumped down from her perch on the sofa and rubbed against his legs, purring. Data stooped to pick her up and hold her, knowing that humans took comfort from pets. In fact, he had once heard Doctor Crusher talking about something called 'pet therapy', which was, as he found when he accessed his files on the subject, when humans brought in animals like cats or dogs to bedbound patients. His files also gave him information regarding autistic children responding to dolphins…

He lowered his head slightly, looked around the room. When he had first joined the _Enterprise _crew his quarters had been sparse, with no decorations. He had not understood why he should have mementos, as his android brain could accurately recall every event he had ever recorded. Then, as he had gone on, he had discovered (by dint of questioning those he thought in authority on the subject) that the point was not precisely to have reminders, but rather to make the quarters…aesthetically pleasing. Thus, once again imitating humans without quite understanding them, he now had a few paintings in the room, a few knicknacks…

Including the holo of Tasha Yar.

Data's mouth pinched, and his golden eyes flicked from side to side as his flawless memory called up another scene and the accompanying sensations—fear. And pain—not warning from sensors that told him he had been damaged, but actual physical pain, hot and stinging. The sensation had shocked him into immobility. He had known, of course, that humans experienced pain, but had never expected to feel it himself. Nor to see blood—not fluid, but real human blood—oozing from his slashed arm, oddly-colored against his gold-white fingers.

And she had circled him, smiling, walking with that easy languorous supple swaying of hips, looking at him and yet not looking.

_Is it becoming clear to you now? Look at yourself—standing there cradling the new flesh I have given you. If it means nothing to you, why protect it?_

He had said the first thing he could think of. _I am simply imitating…the behavior of humans._

And she had smiled, contempt cold in her eyes.

Data's head twitched as he consciously aborted the memories. He put Spot down onto the floor and crossed over to where the holo of Tasha stood. When he activated the switch she sprang to life, smiling with her boyishly-cropped hair a lemon-yellow cuff over her brow.

_Data, I'm only going to say this once: it never happened._

He had been puzzled at the time, having to run the comment through his memory banks before he understood that Tasha was not denying the fact that it had happened, but rather telling him that she was not to be reminded of it again. He had, of course, had no emotions on the subject at the time, aware of only a faint puzzlement over why humans felt compelled to feel 'embarrassment' over something which, Data had observed, happened alarmingly often. Since he had gotten his emotion chip, however, he had been able to feel emotions, and he was feeling one now. He tried to isolate it. Was it…anger? No, that couldn't be right. Puzzlement, certainly. Regret that he had not had the emotion chip when he had known Tasha. Shame…not about Tasha but about what had happened in Engineering, the things that even the Captain did not know about. Something that the humans called 'revulsion', both at himself and the creature who had done this to him.

_I suppose this is what Humans mean,_ he thought, _when they talk of feeling 'dirty', or 'tainted'. _

It was an unpleasant sensation. He wanted it to go away, and tried to reroute his awareness away from it, but it kept resurfacing.

_Part of having emotions is learning to integrate them into your life, Data. Learning to live with them—no matter what the circumstances—_

That was the Captain. And now, as he had then, Data said, "Sir, I cannot."

His head twitched slightly as he deactivated the emotion chip.

Deanna Troi looked up from her book as the flow of emotions she had been monitoring for the past hour suddenly ceased.

She sighed. Data had done it again.

The absence of emotions allowed Data to sit at the computer console and scan all the news with android speed. As of now the bulletins were mainly about the recent attack of the Borg, comparing it with the last one, Wolf 357. Data wondered whether the Captain was reading the bulletins as well; Wolf 357 could hardly be a pleasant memory for him.

After he was done with the news he calculated the extent of the repairs which would have to be effected in Engineering and all the decks which the Borg had taken over, and estimated the amount of time necessary to have a new deflector dish installed. At the same time he ran a report for Starfleet Command over what had taken place, planned the details of his next shore leave, and contemplated the details of his next assignment. After all this had been completed to his satisfaction, he switched the emotion chip back on.

And immediately the ugliness came flooding back in on him. Data, slumped over his desk, straightened his shoulders slowly and stood up. Nearly five hours were left before his shift began; plenty of time to get started on what he had decided would be his latest project.

He crossed to the other side of the room, slid open a compartment in the wall, and took out his painting supplies and a clean canvas, and settled down in the middle of the room to work.

Captain Picard woke with a scream. For a moment the image of Borg hovered before him before he blinked his eyes and his vision cleared.

He always hated nightmares, most especially when the nightmares were not some random holodrama of the mind but a replaying of actual events. Somehow a captain of a starship should not have nightmares. It ruined his professional image.

And Counselor Troi would be in here any minute now…

Bad enough, to have nightmares. Worse to inflict them on someone else, some innocent person.

Picard slid out of bed and did his best to project feelings of calm and wellbeing—which was difficult since he was still shaking. With set jaw he crossed over to the replicator and demanded, "Tea. Earl Grey. Hot."

There was a momentary rippling sound as the mug and its contents came into being. Picard sipped it slowly, moving aimlessly and restlessly around the room, unwilling and unable to think about his nightmare beyond a few random flashes of horrible distorted images. _The eyepiece…_

He shuddered.

The door chimed.

Had Picard not been expecting the sound he would have dropped his tea. As it was, he stiffened slightly and barked, "Come."

The doors slid open. Deanna Troi stood without, her wide, faintly alien eyes large in the dimness, her hair tumbling around her face. "Captain? I sensed…"

"Terror," said Picard dryly. "Yes, I know." He gestured for her to come in and went back to scowling out the window at the stars. "Just another Locutus dream. Nothing out of the ordinary." He turned to look at her with a wry smile. "I presume that you have been sensing many such dreams."

"You are the third I've sensed tonight," she admitted.

"Data?" Picard hazarded.

Troi looked at him with an indefinable sadness in her dark eyes. "No. Not Data."

"How is Data, by the way? I know you were scheduled to have a session with him." While not an overly sociable man, Picard did genuinely value his crewmembers. Besides, it was important for a captain to know the well-being of his crew, especially when the operation of a starship, particularly a damaged starship, depended so much on everyone being at the top of their game.

Troi sighed. "We had the session."

"And…?"

"And I don't think we got anywhere in particular. Not surprising, considering what has gone on in the past few days, but still…" She sighed. "Frankly, I'm worried for him. Not that he'll malfunction, but that whatever happened in Engineering twisted something so hard in Data that it broke." She sighed again. "Captain, he keeps deactivating his emotion chip."

Picard frowned. As often as he had envied Data his ability to 'switch off' his emotions, he knew what his counselor was trying to say. "And this isn't good for him?"

"No. Temporarily deactivating the chip doesn't make the emotions go away; if anything it aggravates them when the chip is turned back on. It just sort of…shunts them off into a pattern buffer until the next time. He'll just keep cycling through them until we can get him past them."

Picard pinched the bridge of his nose. He shut his eyes; they seemed to have sand in them. "I can understand why he doesn't want to talk about it."

Troi smiled, remembering all the convolutions Picard had gone through to keep from talking about Locutus.

"However," said Picard, and opened his eyes again, "that does not negate his need to talk about them. I don't understand it. He's always so eager to try out another human foible; why not counseling? If we told him that everyone else does it—"

"I tried that already."

Picard sighed again. "Well, is his emotion chip off _now_?"

Troi went still for a moment, allowing the tendrils of her empathic senses to quest outward, searching for that one mind. Then she shook her head. "No. It's functioning."

"Very well, Counselor. You will continue your sessions with him in the hopes of opening him up. If you see any signs that something is wrong you will inform me immediately."

"Yes, Captain." Troi began to walk to the door, then turned to him and asked softly, "Are you sure you don't want to talk?"

"Me?" He smiled wryly, spread his hands. "I've done all the talking I can stand for this hour of the night. I'm getting another cup of tea and a good book. I doubt I'll be able to sleep."

"Very well, Captain." And Troi drifted out, ghostlike in the dim light of ship's night, her filmy nightclothes shimmering behind her.

Picard sighed, went over to the shelf, and got out one of his favorite archaelogy books.

"Geez," griped Will Riker, pacing restlessly around the captain's ready room, "not only do we have to deal with the Borg taking over our ship and disrupting the timeline, _but _we have to clean up after them once they're gone. What litterbugs."

His lame attempt to lighten the atmosphere earned him a ferocious scowl from Worf, a hard look from the captain, and a twitch from Data. Beverly Crusher, coming into the room a moment later, looked around as though wondering what the uncomfortable silence was about.

"Well," she said into the stillness, sliding into her assigned seat, "I think we have everyone patched up, including your ensign, Worf," she nodded to the Klingon. "As for Ensign Hallow—he's in intensive care, but I have every expectation that he'll be all right."

"Good," said Picard, and everyone nodded their relief. "Worf…I think it will be safe to beam aboard your ship and see what can be done with it. I'm afraid they're not going to have a slot in Spacedock open for us for some time; they're repairing the more critically damaged ships first so they can get back to duty. The Vulcans are sending a few repair teams, and we can expect them in a few days. Until then, we'll have to see what we can do ourselves." He nodded to Geordi LaForge, who took up the slack.

"The Borg have made an incredible mess of Engineering," he said. "We've disposed of all the bodies, but there's still all that tubing and those damn regeneration alcoves are everywhere. Not to mention the mess they made of the controls. And the...plasma coolant tank," he added, with a sideways glance at Data.

Data merely stared back at him with his usual neutral, relaxed expression.

"Well." Picard cleared his throat, to get them all past this uncomfortable moment. "We'd best get started on that. Mr. Data, you and LaForge will work in Engineering. Number One?"

"Yes, sir?"

"See if you can find someone to go with Worf to the _Defiant_."

Worf shot him a glance that was a Klingon's closest equivalent to gratitude. "Thank you, sir," he rumbled.

"Not at all, Commander. Doctor Crusher…I expect that someone on the other ships will require medical assistance. You and Counselor Troi will be on lend, as it were."

Beverly smiled, a small curl of the lips. "No problem, Captain."

"Good. Dismissed."

He watched as the little huddle broke up and flew off to their assigned duties.


	2. Chapter 2

"Dishonorable."

That was all Commander Worf seemed to have to say these days, thought Ensign Hayes as he picked through the rubble which comprised the bridge of the _Defiant_. That, and many short, snarling Klingon words which Hayes did not know, but which he was reasonably certain were epithets directed toward the creatures who had destroyed the ship. This ship, and so many others like it…the Admiral's flagship…the _Bozeman_…and, very nearly, the _Enterprise-E_, which was the biggest ship Hayes had ever seen. He considered the rumor that had been floating around subspace for the past few days—the wild assertion that the _Enterprise_ had gone back in time and actually assisted Zephram Cochrane in First Contact.

Nah, not possible. Just a rumor.

"Dishonorable," growled Worf again, and kicked savagely at a beam lying across his command chair. "_Khest_!"

That one Hayes knew. He turned away and assiduously studied the patches of blood, human and alien, that blotted the floor and walls. Evidence of that last hit that had nearly blown them.

Worf let out another string of Klingonese and savagely turned over a sheet of metal from under which a dark-skinned wrist was protruding.

"Lieutenant Kwame," he growled, and spat.

Hayes felt his stomach curl as he viewed the damage an exploding console had wrought. Kwame's face—oh, God, he didn't even _have _a face anymore, did he?

Worf turned suddenly and fixed a fierce stare on Hayes from under his corrugated Klingon brow.

"Do not grieve, Ensign," he said tersely. "Kwame died an honorable death in battle. Much more honorable than being assimilated."

Hayes felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. Nevertheless, he stood straight.

How to explain to a Klingon warrior the concept of human grief?

Geordi watched his friend out of the corner of his eye. Data was standing quietly at an assimilated console, patiently prying Borg circuitry from the internal mechanisms. To all appearances he appeared perfectly normal. Yet Geordi knew better. Since the implant of his emotion chip Data did give off very faint subliminal cues to those who knew him well. And Geordi could see the tension in the synthetic shoulders, the faint downturned mouth that was like a shout to him.

"Data."

Data actually stopped what he was doing and looked up. Bad sign. "Yes, Geordi?"

"Wanna talk?"

Data studied him for a moment without a flicker in those bright yellow eyes. Then he shook his head and went back to doctoring the console. Geordi could see the poison-green blotches of Borg blink across the displays, the reflected light turning Data's pale gold face a sickly green. He sighed and shook his head, then turned and went over to where three crewmen were attempting to repair the shattered plasma coolant tank.

"How's it going?" he asked conversationally.

One of the ensigns, a youngish woman with hair so pale it looked as though it had been bleached, shook her head dubiously. "We're attempting to rebond the transparent aluminum, but the matrix doesn't seem to be functioning properly."

Geordi took the padd from her and studied it intently, then pressed a few buttons and handed it back. "There you go."

"Thank you, sir." The ensign turned back to scowling at the shattered tank. Geordi didn't know whether she knew how the tank was shattered; everything had been so chaotic for the past few days, what with one thing or another. Being one of the senior staff, he of course was aware of what had caused the damage—Data. Data had done it, to kill the Borg. How he had managed to lose half the synthetic skin off his face and a good piece off his arm, Geordi still didn't know. Data had not told him—which was weird, because Data usually told him everything. Of everyone on board the ship, Data was the closest to him. Even before he had had emotions, he had still sought out Geordi's company. And the thought had warmed Geordi.

He turned around, back to the consoles, and caught Data staring intently at the ruptured tank before he became aware of Geordi's gaze and turned back to the console with that faintly machinelike quality of movement that always gave away his true nature: android.

But right now that wasn't on Geordi's mind: the all too human feelings within that titanium and silicon shell were. He strode briskly over to where Data stood bent over the console and laid his hand on Data's shoulder.

"Watcha thinking about, buddy?" he asked softly.

Data did not look up. His hands flew over the panel. "I am considering the best way to reroute the power from the Borg implants so that they can be removed. Never having had the opportunity to observe Borg technology this close, I am analyzing the extent of their technology. I would say that they are quite possibly the most technologically advanced race in the galaxy."

"They're a conglomerate. Does that count as 'race'? Besides, they couldn't assimilate _you_—and if they can't beat Noonien Soong's cybertechnology, then I'd say they're far from being the 'most technologically advanced race in the galaxy'."

"Their expertise does not extend merely to the technological." The console before him bleeped, then shut down. Data began methodically removing Borg circuitry from the tangle of wires. "It also extends to the mental."

"What's that supposed to mean? They stick a piece of circuitry in your head, and it controls you. That doesn't count as—"

"It is a _mental _control," said Data, turning to face Geordi. "It is the force of the Collective mind that controls you. It is like telepathy. How else do you think that the Captain, when once linked to the hive mind, could hear them in his own mind?"

"The Captain could hear them?" said Geordi, hearing the shock in his own voice and not bothering to hide it.

Data nodded, though his face remained composed. "He heard them…whisper to him. But he used it, utilized it to analyze their weaknesses. Thus, he was able to know where their shields were weak, and this enabled him to destroy the cube."

Geordi remembered that awful day, the Captain springing like an unleashed tiger at Data's console.

_This is Captain Picard of the _Enterprise_. I'm taking charge of the fleet. Concentrate all your weapons onto the following coordinates; fire at my command._

He turned to Data. "He knew!"

"As I believe I said." Data had turned back to the console, was ripping circuitry from it. "To some extent I, too, was linked to the hive mind. I called him," he admitted, not looking at Geordi. "Through the link. I told him I was alive and unassimilated, and he came back to save me." His hands never paused in their activity, so fast they were pale blurs, his voice never wavered, but Geordi could see Data's shoulders getting stiffer and stiffer. "It is another way she brought me closer to humanity."

" 'She'? Hold on a minute," said LaForge, his voice more petulant than he intended. "Who's 'she'?"

Data did look up then, and there was anger in the sulphurous eyes, anger and other less obvious emotions that Geordi could not identify. He took an involuntary step back as Data said, "The Borg queen."

"There was a _queen_?"

"She brought order to chaos," said Data, as though he were quoting someone else. His eyes narrowed and his mouth pinched, and Geordi suddenly remembered that those long, seemingly delicate hands could bend titanium. "She was, in every sense of the the word, the Collective."

"Oh, my God." Geordi could hear the faint tremor in Data's voice, and it disturbed him more even than his first sight of Data after the crisis—the left side of his face stripped, the titanium skull plainly exposed, servo-motors and artificial nerves taut over the metal exoskeleton of his arm. "Data. What did she _do _to you?"

"She made me more human," said Data, with a faint smile which held irony that Geordi had never seen in his friend before. Data's eyes darted to the side, then focussed back on his friend. "Geordi. I would appreciate it if you would not pursue this conversation. If I am overwhelmed with emotions I will be unable to concentrate on my work, and I will have to deactivate the chip."

It was not a threat; simply a statement. Geordi nodded reluctantly.

"All right, Data. But listen. If you ever do want to talk, I'm right here."

The anger bled out of Data's eyes.

"Thank you, my friend," he said softly.

Picard went down to Engineering after five hours to see what progress had been made. He noted that many of the tubes had been removed from their interfaces in the ship's walls, although the regeneration alcoves still stood. A faint horrible memory of himself pinned in one such alcove flitted through his consciousness before he forcibly pushed it away. The Borg were dead, and his ship was his own. He had won.

He strode fiercely down the corridor—blessedly cool and dry, no swirl of humidity—and reveled in the emptiness of his mind, the emptiness that no longer droned and whispered and called, _Locutus_…

No servos. No sensorscopes. No laser beams piercing the murk of the Borg hive. The green panels above the alcoves were dark and without power.

He was just in time to see Commander Data rip an alcove from the wall in one smooth motion, lift it over his head, and walk across the room without apparent effort.

Despite his knowledge of Data's strength, Picard gaped. Those things had to weigh at least a kiloton, and Data just…walked off with them. Across the room various teams of crewmembers were easing the alcoves onto antigrav sleds and carting them off.

For a moment Picard just watched, arms folded, and then Data caught sight of him.

"Captain." He swung his burden down onto the deck and came forward, perfectly composed, not a hair ruffled.

Geordi, hearing him, broke off from where he was tugging at an alcove and came forward, wiping his hands on his uniform. His sleeves were rolled up, and his dark face was glossy with sweat.

"How goes it?" asked Picard.

Geordi caught the informality in the captain's voice and responded in kind, shrugging and rolling his eyes. "I don't know. I've never seen anything like it. I can't imagine how they managed to jam all this foreign circuitry into the boards without triggering a self-destruct mechanism."

"The Borg are, by their nature, easily adaptable," Data supplied helpfully. "Perhaps that is the key."

Geordi shrugged again. "Ah, I don't know. Everyone in here is so pissed off that I thought I'd give them a chance to work it off." He nodded to the teams wrestling with the bulky and recalcitrant alcoves. Loud swearing was heard.

Data was not giving them his full attention. He was staring at the table that had been—to use Will Riker's word—borgified. Picard remembered being slammed against the table, a rotating saw on the end of a drone pricking his neck, poised to slice through muscle and bone.

He still had not told the rest of the crew what had transpired in this room—more than the basics.

Who knew what had happened to Data on that table?

Locutus… 

A mental echo. Not her voice.

Next to him, Geordi cleared his throat and shifted uneasily. "Uh…guys?"

Picard brought his gaze back and noticed that Data had as well. "Excuse me. Well, carry on, Engineer. Let me know if you encounter any problems—any _major _problems," he amended, as Data opened his mouth. "In two hours a different shift will come in to relieve you."

"Very good, Captain," said LaForge.

As Picard turned to go he saw Geordi stretch his tired back. Data had already gone back to the alcove lying in the middle of the floor and hoisted it over his head.

In two hours the promised relief came. Geordi retreated with alacrity to find a sandwich and a drink. Data continued working. He did not tire as organics did, and the sooner Engineering was restored, the sooner they could go back to normal operation.

The transporter chief was ticked off. It wasn't enough that they had to battle the Borg and go back in time, _now _he had to be on double duty—since his relief had been assimilated. Thus he fought grief and was in no patience for nonsense, and was therefore extremely annoyed at having to spend his whole day at the transporter controls, beaming Borg junk down to labs on Earth, there to be taken apart and studied in an attempt to learn something more about the Federation's most lethal enemy.

He swore as he beamed more alcoves out of Engineering and fervently wished that all Borg and their appliances would go straight to hell—or wherever it was Borg went when they truly died.

Data stepped into his quarters and noted dispassionately that he smelled like Borg coolant—that alien mechanical smell. He decided that he would go down to the lab later and analyze the chemical components of this fluid.

For now, however, he was filthy. He stripped and stuffed his clothes down the recycler, then stepped into the sonic shower. After he came out he dressed in a new uniform—since he did not sleep, he had no need of sleepwear—and went over to where his easel stood, sliding paints out of their tubes. Spot came and rubbed against his leg, and he petted the animal absently while considering whether work did indeed serve to ease grief or the consciousness of guilt. Humans said so, perhaps because they did not have a multiphase brain. He could concentrate on twelve different things at once. Hence the fact that while he was down working in Engineering everything that had transpired a few days ago ran and reran itself through his positronic circuits. It was becoming harder and harder to reroute his awareness away from those disturbing memories—like a terrible Holodeck scenario that he was trapped in, the drama played itself out continually through multiple levels of his consciousness. Like a virus, it took over more and more of his circuits.

He shook his head as if to jolt the circuits back to their assigned duties and picked up his palette. As he painted his internal chronometer ticked off the minutes left before he had to meet Counselor Troi. It was not something he looked forward to—in fact, he discovered as he analyzed it, his unpleasant anticipation had combined with a tinge of fear to form the feeling the humans called dread. He did not want to talk about what had happened in Engineering.

His hand moved the brush with preternatural speed. It felt good, to do something. Finally. To have some power over something that happened.

His internal chronometer told him that he had three minutes left before his counseling appointment. He was on the verge of getting up and putting away his paints when the door chimed.

In a few nanoseconds he had decided what to do. The painting would smear if flung somewhere else, and he wanted to preserve it. He would answer the door himself, and talk to whoever wanted him outside.

Counselor Deanna Troi started slightly as the doors to Data's quarters slid open. He stood before her, a puzzled crease marring his brow.

"Counselor? Is there something…"

"I thought we could have the counsel session in your quarters," she said gently. "More familiar surroundings."

She reached out and felt indecision, hesitation—and fear. Fear so powerful as to be almost overwhelming, and a hot sense of shame.

Data shifted, apparently trying to shield her view of the room. "Counselor, I…"

"What is it, Data?" she said softly. He was actually trembling. Then, with a flash of insight, "Is there something you do not want me to see?"

He let out a sigh and bit his lip. "They will all hate me," he stated.

"Hate you? Hate you for what?"

"For what I did!" His hands clenched at his sides.

"Data," said Troi, not quite understanding, "you saved the ship. You saved the whole earth. The future of humanity."

"But…but the Borg captured me…"

"They captured the Captain, too. Does anyone hate him?"

He blinked. "No. But he had no choice. I did."

"Did you really?"

He blinked rapidly, processing. "No. Not really. That is what troubles me…I took the best course I could think of, and still my ethical subroutines insist that I did wrong."

"Call it a conscience, Data. Is that what you are so troubled over? The fact that you could not see a right way?"

Data glanced over her shoulder at the passing crewmen.

"I have worked very hard to perfect my sense of appropriateness," he informed her. "If I am correct, this is," he paused, " 'not the place' to discuss this."

Troi smiled. "You're right, Data. May I come in?"

Again the android hesitated.

Troi put a reassuring hand on his arm. "I'm a counselor, Data. I hear everyone's secrets. Whatever it is that worries you, I promise I won't judge."

For a moment longer he stared at her, then wheeled and walked back into his quarters.

Troi followed him. The first thing that struck her eye was the large canvas set up in the middle of the room. Though clearly unfinished, it was the face that held her attention. It seemed alive, straining to escape the confines of the paint.

It was a mesmerizing face. Hauntingly beautiful with a sharp, fiercely sculpted, finely planed face and full crimson lips standing out like human blood against the cold marbled flesh of the Borg, the three tubes protruding from its bald head only accentuating the sensuality of that face. Its eyes were metal-clouded silver, ancient and insatiable, alight with power, with erotic beckoning. It was a terrifying face, and those silver eyes stared directly at the viewer—at Troi—a sly, satisfied smile curling those scarlet lips.

Troi staggered back at the waves of powerful emotion coming off of the being beside her. Data caught her in those inhumanly strong arms and asked in concern, "Counselor…?"

"It's—it's all right," she said, righting herself. "It's just—Oh, God, Data."

His face was stiff with rage—but not at her. At the face in the painting and all she represented. There was acid in the golden eyes.

"Now do you know why I did not want you to see?" he said to her.

"Oh, Data." She put out a hand. He had one of his own clutching at his temples.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" she asked.

"I will, Counselor," he said. His eyes were back on the painting. Troi took him by the hand and led him over to the couch. He sat stiffly, without any of the artificial 'relaxed' mannerisms he had adopted over the years.

"What happened?" asked Troi softly.

He told her. Beneath his level voice an immense anger was seething. Troi had only felt this intensity of emotion from one being—and that was Lore. Misguided, violent, brilliant Lore, who had destroyed those around him until he had to be killed by his own brother.

What was Soong, to give the capacity for such rage to his creations?

"And then…" said Data, and stopped.

"Yes?" Troi prompted.

"Then I knocked the two Borg who were applying the human skin on my arm down, and entered the code into the control padd. When the devices released me I attempted to run for the door, but the drones were fighting me."

"What did you do?"

Data's face tightened at the memory. "I threw one down the warp core well. The others I damaged severely. I was nearly to the door, but a force field flashed in front of me. I attempted to turn and reach the other exit—but—"

"Yes?"

Data turned away. His fists were clenched tightly, shaking, on his knees. "She commanded a drone to scratch me."

"Scratch you?"

"Scratch the human skin on my arm." Data turned to face her again, his teeth clenched. "I had never felt pain before, not what organic beings would call pain. The shock of it immobilized me. She held up her hand, and the drones moved off."

"And then?"

He was looking away from her again. "I do not wish to tell you."

"You can tell me, Data. I won't tell anyone else."

"She said—" He stopped, and looked at her. "I will imitate her voice, so that you can understand. You must understand, Counselor."

"Very well, Data."

She could see the marks of the effort in his face. Had he been human, he would have been sweating rivulets. "She said, 'Is it becoming clear to you now?'"

Troi flinched. She knew all about Data's proficiency in voice-mimicry, but still it was uncanny. And that voice—sly, contemptuous—alluring.

" 'Look at yourself—standing there cradling the new flesh I have given you. If it means nothing to you, why protect it?'"

Data's eyes crimped with distress. "I said, 'I..am merely imitating the behavior of humans.'"

"And she said…" Troi prompted.

" 'You are becoming more human all the time, Data. Now you are learning how to lie.'"

Data's voice changed again. In it was pain and bewilderment, and fear. " 'My programming…was not designed…to process these sensations!'"

Troi could see it all too clearly—the creature from the painting circling Data, intent upon her prey, Data frightened and disturbed. "What did she say then?"

"She said…she said…" Data swallowed several times. Troi could feel the anger from him, getting stronger and stronger. "She said: 'Then tear the skin from your limb, as you would a defective circuit.—Go ahead, Data. We won't stop you.'"

His voice rose, cracked. "I tried to, Counselor! But she knew I could not. She stood there, smiling at me. She knew…"

"She knew that you had always wanted to know what it felt like to be human," said Troi softly.

Data simply stared at her, his mouth crimped into a thin line, and shook his head.

"What happened after that?"

"She asked me…if I was familiar with physical forms of pleasure. I told her that if she was referring to sexuality, I was fully functional; programmed in multiple techniques. She asked me how long it was since I used them. I told her…and she said…she said…she said it had been far too long. It was as if she knew about Tasha!"

Troi herself had not known about Tasha. "And?"

Data jumped from the couch and stood facing her, tense and ready to run. "I do not wish this to continue!" he said between clenched teeth.

"Did she kiss you?"

"No!" and then twitched as his ethical programming sent a quaver through his nervous system. Troi did not need that twitch to tell her he was lying—the waves of emotion assaulting her did that well enough. She asked very quietly, "Did you want her to kiss you, Data?"

"No! She was a monster."

"That was not what I asked. I asked you if you wanted her to kiss you."

"That is an invalid question. She would not allow me to deactivate my emotion chip. I could not reroute my awareness away from what she made me feel."

"Did _she_ make you feel it? Or did you—"

"No!" Data shouted. "I do not wish to discuss it."

"What happened after you kissed?"

"_No_!" Data slammed his fist down onto the table and left a dent in it. Troi stared. That table was titanium.

Data stared too, first at the table and then at his hand. Then he stared at Troi, questioning in his eyes.

"I did not mean to do that," he said softly, wonderingly.

"It's all right, Data. Anger has to be let out. And I know for a fact that Worf has been smashing breakable objects in his quarters for the past few days."

He nodded, relieved, and gave her a brief smile. Then he went down on one knee and without apparent effort straightened the table back. Then, composedly, he walked back to the couch and sat down, folding his hands loosely in his lap.

"Do you feel better?" asked Troi.

He glanced at her quickly, then saw that she was sincere.

"Yes," he admitted, and then the brief lifting of the clouds faded and his mouth thinned again. He did not look at her. "Though I expect that what I will tell you next will make me angry again." He turned to her, sincerity shining in his eyes. "I do not want to be angry, Counselor. I do not want to be like Lore."

"You will never be like Lore, Data. You're the most gentle person I know. And it's natural to feel angry over a…rape."

He went very still. "Rape, Counselor?"

"Yes, rape," said Troi firmly. "Emotional and physical."

He did not use platitudes as a human would. He did nothing at all, just kept staring at the floor with that hurt, bewildered gaze. Troi put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, feeling the density and strength of the underlying structure, so different from an organic's.

Data sighed. "I suppose this is what humans mean when they say they 'feel as if they have been used'."

"Yes, Data. And you were used in the worst possible way. But we have to work through it if you want to get past it. Trust me, Data." She paused. "How did you feel with her in your arms?"

"How do you think I felt?" he flung at her.

"I don't know. I'm asking you."

He got up again, walked restlessly around the room, another mannerism he had picked up, probably from the Captain. "I do not know."

"Try to remember."

"No! I do not wish to!"

"But you didn't delete the memories. Did you?"

He didn't answer her, simply stared at her with his head cocked to one side. Troi knew he was not seeing her, but the Queen.

"I am going to smash something again," he threatened.

"Go ahead," said Troi coolly.

He stared at her for a moment, jaw working, before whirling and staring at the easel. The Borg Queen stared back at him, mocking him, triumphant even in death.

"Why did you paint her, Data?" said Troi's soft voice from beyond the Queen's alluring, deadly face.

He had to process for several seconds before finally coming up with a coherent answer—for Data, an eternity. "I wished to contain her. I heard that humans feel better when they—I believe it is called 'externalizing' one's feelings—and I thought…"

"Yes?"

He did not answer. He was too busy staring into those mesmerizing metallic eyes. Vaguely he wondered whether he was having a malfunction, because images of her were mixed up with other memories—other deaths. Tasha's, Lal's, even Lore's. Threaded through it was the emotion he had felt when he had failed Geordi on the Amargosa observatory.

"Data?" asked Troi. "I'm feeling a deep sense of guilt from you."

He said nothing. Was this how Lore had felt, all his life? Guilty, consumed with rage? Betrayed, even?

Poor Lore. No wonder he was so destructive.

"Data?"

He snapped back to the present, eyes focussing beyond the canvas. "Yes, Counselor."

"Why are you angry with Captain Picard?"

He actually flinched. He had not realized it himself until she had voiced it. He processed again. "I believe it is because…"

"Yes?" Troi prompted.

He flung all attempts at calm analysis to the winds and, for the moment, simply _felt_. He did not actually see a haze of red over his vision—that was yet another human trait he was denied—but he was acutely aware of every neuron, every impulse firing. Wanting to hurt something, anything, yet prohibited from doing so by his programming. The opposing urges actually shook him.

"He was going to leave the ship and blow it up!" he seethed, and took a few steps closer to Troi. He hated feeling this way. It was what he had felt in the Borg hive—vulnerable, confused, full of rage. "He was going to leave the ship and blow it up, and me with it. He was not _there_!"

"You felt abandoned," Troi said sympathetically.

"Yes! He was sitting on the bridge—which he had only because _I_ locked the computers out—doing nothing except order others, while she had me and was using me. I was trying my best to isolate a way to regain control of the ship…in the end, I was the one who destroyed her. The fate of the whole galaxy was in my hands, and he wished to simply destroy them and me and run away! It was—" he scanned momentarily for a word—"it was disloyal."

"He did come back for you, you know, Data."

Data's shoulders sagged. "Only because I called him."

"What, Data?"

The yellow eyes were full of acute distress. "I was by this time linked to the Hive mind—as was he. I called the Captain through the link. I told him that I was still unassimilated. I tried to transmit full data to him, but the link was unreliable and an android brain cannot file-dump into an organic brain. So he was unprepared when he came to Engineering."

"What happened in Engineering?"

"I do not have full recordings, as I was in stasis for some of the time—"

"Stasis?"

"A Borg regeneration alcove," he said bluntly.

Troi shuddered involuntarily.

Data cocked his head to one side, seemingly puzzled by her reaction. Evidently he still didn't understand empathic abilities. "But I do have logs from the point when I was reactivated." His head twitched thoughtfully. "Wait."

Troi watched as he got up and activated the viewer on his desk and uncoiled a length of cord from a drawer. He turned to her, peeling back a strip of skin from his temple to expose the blue-glowing port underneath as he did so.

"I can download my visual logs to this screen," he explained, "therefore enabling you to better understand."

"Well, Data, I would prefer if you would _tell _me what happened…"

"I believe it will be necessary to show you," he said impassively, and without as much as a blink plugged the cord into the port on his temple, then plugged the other end into the viewer. His eyes darted from side to side as he sifted his memory banks for the right file.

"Ah," he said, "here it is," and then his eyes seemed to glaze over as a scene came suddenly into focus on the screen: Engineering, yet hideously changed. Black tubes hung suspended from the ceiling; glowing alcoves lined the walls. The atmosphere was dim and murky, pierced only by the the laser sensorscopes of Borg. In the swirling mist dim shapes moved with unsettling mechanical jerkiness: the Borg.

Data unsnapped the port from his temple and impassively smoothed the skin over. "I have downloaded the file." He leaned forward. "Computer, play current file."

The scene shifted to focus on two figures standing in the foreground. One was obviously Captain Picard, albeit sweatstained, begrimed and tense; the other—the other Troi recognized from Data's painting. The Borg Queen, even more vibrant and alluring in life than she was in a painting.

"You're free to go, Data," she said.

"Data, go," said Picard, without taking his eyes from the Queen.

"No," came Data's voice, sharp with a contemptuous note Troi had never heard before.

Picard turned to stare directly at the camera—at Data—in disbelief.

"I do not wish to go," said Data.

Troi chanced a glance at the being beside her. He was tense, his eyes riveted on the two figures on the screen. Waves of unsettling emotions poured off him. She took his pale gold hand in hers and squeezed. This seemed to comfort him; he squeezed back and gave her a brief smile that was meant to be reassuring, even as the Borg queen said with a sly smile that showed sharp white teeth:

"As you see, I have already found an equal.—Data. Deactivate the autodestruct sequence."

"Data, no, don't do it!" Picard shouted.

Data's hand flew over the panel on the wall. Troi could see the pink human flesh on his arm, unsettling against the synthetic flesh.

"Data, listen to me—" said Picard.

"_Auto-destruct sequence deactivated_."

The Borg Queen smiled, triumphant, and cast a malicious glance at Picard before saying, "Now enter the decryption codes and give me computer control."

"Data!" Picard leaped up on the platform, but he was too late.

"Data," he whispered.

Data moved to stand beside the Queen, and his voice was full of evil pleasure as he said, "He will make an excellent drone."

Picard gave him a look of pure furious betrayal as two drones grabbed him by the arms and dragged him to a table.

Through Data's eyes, Troi experienced the attempt to destroy the _Phoenix_, and the horrific unfolding of events afterwards. She saw the spray of plasma coolant, saw bits of blood and ragged flesh splatter across the camera—Data's one remaining eye—as the skin on the left side of his face dissolved. She saw the Borg Queen try to drag Picard into the coolant, saw her own arms—Data's arms—reach out to seize the Queen and hurl her into the coolant. When the sight of the Borg Queen's bubbling flesh and horrible screams filled the screen Troi convulsively covered her eyes and turned away from the screen, feeling her stomach heave. "That's enough!"

Data silently switched the screen off. When Troi didn't take her face out of her hands he put an arm around her shoulders.

"Oh, God, Data," Troi moaned. "I had no idea how horrible it was." She paused. "When the plasma coolant dissolved the human skin on your arm and face, it must have been agonizing."

"It was as I told her," he said. "My programming was not designed to process the sensations. My systems nearly went off-line."

"You nearly died, you mean."

"No. I almost," his eyes flicked back and forth. "I almost overloaded from the excess of sensory input."

"That's right. You can't subside into unconsciousness like humans. Oh, you poor man, Data."

"Counselor," he reminded her, "I am not a man. I am an android."

"Well, _I_ think that everything you did in Engineering that day just about conclusively proved your humanity, Data. A mere machine couldn't have done all the things you did."

He smiled faintly. "Thank you, Counselor." He tipped his head to the side, consulting his internal chronometer. "I believe our time is up. Shall we have another session tomorrow night, same time?"

"Data. Data, I could stay a while longer."

"You need sleep in order to adequately function." He stood up again, the perfect gentleman, and offered his hand to her. "I will be available tomorrow night, however."

"All right, Data." Which it wasn't, of course, but Troi knew from experience that it was extremely hard to argue with Data. She went and walked to the door, deliberately avoiding glancing at the painting—she almost felt its eyes boring into her back. "Just—Data,if you want to smash things, I recommend that you do it on the holodeck. It'll be hard to explain to the Captain why every article in your room is destroyed."

"I do not think so," he said, and gave her a weak smile.

Troi smiled back, doing her best to look reassuring. "Well, Data, that's as may be. But please…"

"Yes?"

"Try not to blame yourself too much."

Golden eyes tracked her as she walked out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Picard stared out the window of his quarters. Strange, to see stars in fixed positions. He was more used to them streaking by in prismatic stretched-out colors while the _Enterprise _sped off on some mission. Though he didn't consider himself a man of action—not precisely—nevertheless just sitting here doing nothing made him irritable. Space battles, saving worlds—those left his nerves intact. But sitting around picking up the pieces _after _the world had been saved—that grated on him.

Still, he supposed he shouldn't be too angry. After all, the Earth was still there, unassimilated, a swirling vivid jewel in the velvet blackness of space.

Commander Worf was still on the _Defiant_, no doubt still crawling through consoles. When Picard had paged him he had been answered with a restrained growl. Worf was not in the best of tempers, and who could blame him? Neither was anyone else, except for Riker, who hadn't had to fight Borg hand to hand. Secretly, Picard almost envied his first officer—Riker had remained planetface, assisting Doctor Cochrane in humanity's first warp flight, actually getting to fly in the tiny cramped cockpit of the _Phoenix_. And Picard? Had to fight for his ship, his home, the very future of humanity. Deep down he knew that this feeling was unreasonable, that he himself had assigned Riker the task of being in charge of the away team.

But since when had human nature ever been reasonable?

This reminded him of Data. Feeling a sudden need to check up on his second officer, Picard paged Data in his quarters. "Picard to Data."

"Data here," came the instant reply. "Captain, is there some emergency?"

Which reminded Picard of how late it was. He was still putting off sleep. He wondered whether the android knew this.

"No, Data. I was just wondering how you were doing."

"Oh." A pause. "All systems are functioning within normal parameters."

Good heavens. Was Data being evasive? Not that Picard could blame him. "No, I mean how are _you_ doing?"

A long pause, and then: "Adequately, Captain."

Picard sighed and leaned against the wall. "Data?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Data…it isn't going to be easy for any of us."

"Understood, sir. Is there anything else?"

"No, Data, there isn't."

"Sir…have you been sleeping?"

Picard rubbed his forehead. So even Data knew about his dread of sleep. "I was about to go to bed."

"Understood, sir. Data out."

The comlink cut out. Picard went and had a cup of tea before dimming the lights and sliding into bed. For a long time he lay and stared at the ceiling. When he finally subsided into sleep he dreamed about his assimilation and woke up screaming, for the third night in a row.

He kicked off the tangled blankets and got up, cursing, to stare out the window again. He could see a spacedock in the jewel-studded blackness beyond the transparent aluminum, rotating slowly on its orbit around the earth.

He wondered when the Vulcans were going to come and patch them up so they could get the hell out of here.

In the ready room next morning Troi could feel the exhaustion and sleep-deprivation radiate off the others around her. She had sensed Picard's nightmare, but had decided not to go to him: if he had wanted to talk he would come to her. Geordi had been up late last night wrestling with the wiring the Borg had stuck in the walls; Worf had spent most of his sleeping-time working on the _Defiant_; Riker had had night-shift—being the most capable and least occupied of them all—and Beverley Crusher had still not returned from monitoring the patients in one of Earth's most advanced hospitals. When Picard had balked at this theft of his ship's doctor, Command had pointed out that Doctor Crusher was one of the few currently available medicos with working knowledge of Borg wounds. As for Data, right now he was currently assiduously studying the fish tank in the wall. As the others took their seats he turned and joined them.

The plan of action was basically the same as yesterday's: repair the ship, clean out the Borg gadgetry, try to retain a semblance of a normal workday. Picard was going to use his pull as captain of the Federation flagship to see if they could be outfitted with a new crew and get back to their patrols. Riker was going to go with Worf and a couple of technicians and try to get the _Defiant_ up and running, since Worf had pointed out that Deep Space Nine would no doubt need him.

Geordi was sighing as he and Data rode the turbolift down to Engineering, his sleeves already rolled up in anticipation of another day of heavy labor. "I dunno, Data. Is it just me, or is everyone more keyed up than usual?"

"I do not know. Is not tenseness a normal human reaction after a crisis?"

"Yeah, I guess. But the Captain's not sleeping well, not that I blame him. Too bad Doctor Crusher isn't here. She could whip up a fixer-upper in no time."

Data cocked his head at him, but said nothing.

"Well," said Geordi, as they stepped out of the turbolift and walked down the hallway, "at least they're sending a repair crew. Ever notice how repair crews are usually Vulcans? They love tinkering with that stuff. Either that or they feel guilty because they weren't in on the fight."

"Perhaps," said Data.

"Anyway, we'll need all the Vulcan calm we can get. I haven't had time to scan the news, but I bet everyone on Earth is pretty much hysterical."

"I have been keeping up with the latest bulletins. They are hysterical."

Geordi laughed, clapped Data on the shoulder. "There, I knew it. Imagine seeing that thing on holovid—I mean, imagine seeing it as everyone down there saw it, no reference points. I mean, the Borg is what kids frighten other kids with. They're pretty much the boogeymen of the galaxy now. Think they care?"

"They do not," said Data calmly. He glanced to one side. "In fact, I believe that she would have been pleased."

There it was: that disturbing way he avoided saying the name of the Queen, as though it were too dreadful—or too sacred—to hear aloud. Trying to get past the awkward silence, Geordi said with a strained grin, "Anyway, back to the repair crews. I don't think I've ever seen a Klingon crew repair ships after a crisis, though of course they must. A shipload of Worfs, running around. Imagine it, Data!"

"I am endeavoring to, Geordi," said the android solemnly, as he bent over his work.

By 0500 hours most of the Borg circuitry was out of the walls, and the consoles in Engineering had been, as Geordi put it, "de-assimilated". No more of those alien green blotches blinked up at the eyes of the crew. The regeneration alcoves had all been beamed down to labs all over Earth, there to be distributed to the rest of the Federation and studied. The tubing had been detached from the walls and ceiling, and now the repair crews were concentrating on various phaser-blasts, scorched panels, and ripped-up hardware. Some of the damage was so severe that they would have to wait until a better-equipped crew, namely the Vulcans, came along.

Worf, meanwhile, had been busy on his ship, beaming hopelessly twisted metal and debris out into space on a wide-dispersal beam, and cursing the Borg in at least four languages. Ensign Hayes helped him in everything but the cursing and tried not to think of his fallen and assimilated comrades.

"Damn!" Picard shouted, as the vidscreen went blank with the insignia of Starfleet. Angrily he switched the viewer off and began to pace the room.

"Captain?" asked a soft voice from the door of the ready room. Damn. He'd forgotten about Deanna on the bridge. He must have been projecting all over the place.

He swung around to face her. "Yes, Counselor? What is it?"

"That's what I came to ask you." Troi's large eyes were full of probing sympathy.

Picard sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Damn bureacrats. They want to keep us here indefinitely, until they can unscramble themselves and their red tape enough for a proper debriefing—_in person,_ no less. Oh, God." He rubbed his forehead, eyes shut against the pain in his head. "I shall be in the news again. I know I was when I was…captured…"

"I'm sorry, Captain." And she was sorry. This was hard on all of them.

"I doubt they'll throw the book at me, as I _did _save Earth. But it'll be difficult for the crew, and there'll no doubt be all sorts of top-secret officials—I hate dealing with Intelligence agents." He dropped his hands to his sides, laughed bitterly. "And I _had _wanted to get out of here and back to business."

"A typical Starfleet officer reaction," observed Troi sagely. "Bury the trauma beneath work."

Picard sighed. "Counselor, this really isn't the time…"

"Data wants to do the same thing, you know. And I keep telling him he can't, but he won't listen."

"Keep telling him. Perhaps you'll get through to him eventually."

"That's what I'm doing with you, sir."

Picard's jaw clamped. "That isn't what I meant." Seeing she was still unimpressed, he elaborated. "I do not want to talk about it. Not one-on-one, and least of all in group therapy, which I've always held to be ridiculous."

"Who said anything about group therapy?" When the Captain didn't answer she went on. "You're projecting, Captain. You're afraid of telling Starfleet Command about the incident and you're transferring the fear to me."

"Stop psychoanalyzing me!" Picard snapped.

She gave him a faint smile. "What's a ship's counselor for?"

Picard's shoulders sagged. "Point taken. But really, Counselor. Now is not the time."

"Will there ever be a time?"

He didn't look at her. Shrugged brusquely.

And Deanna Troi walked from the ready room shaking her head.

When she went to Data's quarters that night she noticed that the painting of the Borg Queen had disappeared. When asked about it, Data simply looked at her.

"It seemed to disturb you when you saw it," he said equitably. "Our…session…depends on your being relaxed."

But there were no breakthroughs during the session. Data was his normal calm, imperturbable self, his face set in that faintly quizzical expression that was normal for him. He looked Troi in the eye when he talked, sitting absolutely still. At one point Spot jumped into his lap and Data stroked her absently, but without a flicker of emotion on his face. Were Troi anyone else, she would have thought the emotion chip was off. But outer calm could not deceive Betazoid senses. The emotion's that roiled beneath Data's neutral surface were dark and ugly.

At last their hour was up. Troi got up with a sigh and crossed to the door. Data, setting down Spot, followed silently, his head cocked to one side, his eyes wide with distress.

"Counselor," he said. "I hope you do not think that I am being…stubborn."

Troi managed a weak smile. "No, Data. Just troubled." She patted him on the arm. "Give yourself time to heal."

He nodded to her as the doors slid shut and parted them.

Afterwards Troi spent her time counseling a young man whose wife had been assimilated, and several other shattered and hurting people. The dark tide of emotions left her crying herself. She ordered a hot fudge sundae and ate it slowly, watching the tears drip into the sauce and flavor it with the tang of salt.


	4. Chapter 4

Data took refuge in painting, a severe, strictly geometric composition with primary colors, black-bordered squares arranged exactly on the canvas. He liked this kind of painting best. It appealed to the logic of his mind, without all these incomprehensible and puzzling emotions.

But eventually he found his hand moving slower and slower as more and more of his memory circuits became consumed with images from that horrible day in Engineering. He tried to reroute his awareness, without success. Eventually he gave up painting altogether, putting all the brushes and paints away. As he slid the now-clean palette into its proper place his hand brushed against the canvas on which the Borg Queen's face was painted. He consulted his memory banks for a proper human idiom, but all he could think of was 'a skeleton in the closet'.

Yes, a skeleton. A hard, blinking, metal skeleton with a long red-ribbed shiny spine, trailing into an empty black body. And the Borg Queen was in his closet, was she not?

He smiled faintly. Perhaps he had made a joke.

He pulled the canvas out and set it on the easel, staring into the silvery eyes. As he did the emotions inside him consumed his circuits. He turned away quickly and went to activate the holo of Tasha.

He stood and looked at it: at Tasha, as vibrant and beautiful as ever. This holo was like him: with proper care it would last virtually forever.

For the moment, he stopped fighting, and the memories replayed themselves through his brain, the memories he was trying so hard to block.

_Heat, pressure on his mouth. Lips moving against his, wonderful and terrible and frightening because of the new, strange emotions accompanying them. At the same time, beating underneath like the pulse of a heart, his ethical programming, warning him that what he was doing he must not do. _

"_Data," she purred, tipping her head back. Staring right into his eyes. Was there not an old Earth legend about being hypnotized by the eyes of a snake? "You must show me more of your sexuality program."_

_A dilemma, taking 0.79 seconds to solve: a lifetime. To regain the ship he must acquiesce to her demands, but she was the enemy. She had killed millions, destroyed millions more. Data constructed a decision tree, ran a numbers program calculating his odds of succeeding with acquiescence versus his odds of succeeding with resistance. Acquiescence won. _

"_Of course," he said, doing his best approximation of a human's eager smile. If she saw the falseness she gave no sign. Data pulled her to him and kissed her again. _

_The next thing he knew she had her hands on his chest and was making him step backwards across the floor. _

"_What are you doing?" he asked. _

"_Isn't it obvious, Data?" she asked slyly. _

_A bump against his legs. He looked over his shoulder and saw an assimilation table. When he looked at her for an explanation she smiled again, and licked her lips. Then she flipped him onto the table as though he weighed nothing—something which shocked him greatly. He was made of titanium, of steel. _

_While he was thinking this she had vaulted lightly up onto the table and had straddled his hips. Now she sat smiling down at him with that same satisfied smile, danger moving through her eyes like the ripples on a body of water. _

"_Well, Data?" she purred. _

_He turned his head. The drones were moving about their assigned tasks, controlled by the will of She who was All. A few stopped to look at the two of them disinterestedly before moving on again. _

_She stared down at him impatiently. _

"_I do not wish to," he whispered. "Not with them watching."_

_She laughed, a silvery ripple. "Data, they only see what I want them to see. But if it pleases you—" She blinked, that slight motion he had come to know, and all the drones went away to other sections of the room, their backs turned. Even as Data was calculating how he could use this to his advantage she said, shifting, "Activate your pleasuring program. Now."_

_This, he recognized, was the emotion humans called humiliation. But he must not let her see it. Once he activated the program he would not feel it, not then. Only before and afterwards, as humans did. _

_He felt the surge as the program activated. And suddenly the Borg Queen seemed different to him: no longer such a monster, such a thing of revulsion. He stared up at her in wonder. _

_She smiled at him, eyes heavylidded. "It _has _been too long," she said. Then: "Move your hips, Data."_

_He did, and found it undeniably pleasurable. So he did it again. And again. He reached out to touch her, and the tingle in her fingers was like electricity. _

_So they held each other, and when at last he cried out against the sensory overload—cried out in pleasure—for some reason his vision had narrowed down to include only her face. _

Data shuddered, Tasha's holo swimming before his eyes. He asked himself what Tasha would have said if she knew what he had had to do. In a few nanoseconds another part of his mind answered that she would have approved. She had grown up in a criminal world, starved and spending all her time avoiding rape gangs. She would have understood.

But this did not help the feeling inside him. He felt as though he were overheating, as though all his pain sensors were going off at once…No. He felt as he had that day when his new human flesh had been torn. Only this feeling was inside.

His throat ached. He swallowed, but the sensation did not go away. A small sound escaped him, a sound between a sigh and a groan. When he put his fingers up to his stinging eyes he felt wetness there.

He backed away from the holo until his back hit the wall. He slid down to a sitting position, staring off into space as the memories of those horrible minutes in Engineering played and replayed themselves.

The sobs came, slowly and softly at first and then harder until he was shaking with the force of the emotions that wrung him. And in between the sobs he whispered, "I am sorry…I am sorry…"

And the face of She who was All stared back at him from the canvas.

The anguished voice of the operatic tenor sobbed in Picard's ears. Despite this and his personal relaxation lamp all he could think of was the Borg.

It was ship's night. The decks would be deserted by now except for essential personnel. And Picard, once again, could not sleep.

The one person he trusted to dispense sleeping medication, Doctor Beverly Crusher, was away at the Earth hospitals, a fact that Picard heartily rued. Will Riker was sound asleep in bed, Worf was still on the _Defiant_—no doubt cursing heartily. Geordi was sleeping the sleep of a man who had been lifting heavy objects all day. And no doubt Counselor Troi had troubles of her own, an empath on a ship full of nightmare-ridden crewmen. No, he would not disturb her.

The tenor cried, in Italian, of his lost love.

"Oh, what do _you _know," said Picard irritably. "You only lost a lover. _Not _your ship, _not _three-quarters of your crew. And certainly not your dignity as a human being, although that may come in time, if you keep up that noise."

"I am not programmed to respond in that area," said the bland voice of the computer.

"No, I'll wager you're not. Computer, end music!"

The tenor cut off as though he had been suddenly throttled.

Picard sighed and lay down his book. Archaeology held no charms for him tonight. Nor did anything else.

But he didn't want to talk. Not that. But just to be near someone, to know that one was not alone in one's misery…

"Data," he said aloud, remembering Troi's assessment of the android's emotional state. He hit his commbadge. "Mr. Data?"

"Data here, sir."

Picard frowned. There was something odd about Data's voice. He sounded…choked. "Data? You all right?"

A long pause, during which Picard could hear heavy, uneven breathing. "I…do not believe so, sir."

"Data?"

"Perhaps…you should come, sir."

"On my way." Picard hit his commbadge and hurried out the door, wondering what on earth was the matter with his second officer.

As the doors whooshed open in front of him, for a moment he couldn't see anything anything out of the ordinary. There was an easel turned to face the wall, but that was hardly unusual. Then he saw Data.

The android was curled up in the corner, his face buried in his folded arms. His shoulders shook alarmingly. Strangled sobs came from his throat.

"Data." Picard strode over to his second officer and pulled him to his feet. "Data, what is wrong?"

The golden eyes were awash with tears. Data's face was streaked with wet. He gripped Picard's arms, carefully avoiding squeezing too hard and hurting him. "I am sorry for being angry with you, sir."

"Angry?" said Picard, astonished. And then in a flash it all came to him. Data not looking him in the eye. His silences, so unlike him, in the briefing room. He had not volunteered information until asked. Data, usually so eager to please, had become withdrawn—and Picard had been so preoccupied with his own demons and the concerns of his ship that he had not noticed it until now.

"Data," he said, shocked into speechlessness except for that one word.

Data wiped his eyes on his sleeve and rushed on. "I thought that you had abandoned me to the Borg. I see now that I was mistaken. I am sorry, sir."

"Data. Data, let's sit down." He put his hand on Data's arm and led the android unresistingly over to the couch. Data sat down, hands spread on his knees, and stared up at him, yellow eyes as guileless as ever.

Picard sighed and sat stiffly down, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. Disturbing images intruded into his mind, images of a consciousness trapped within its own assimilated body, looking out one's own eyes as out of the forcefield of a prison, trapped behind the shimmering wall. Unable even to scream. Suddenly the horror of it all nearly overwhelmed him. It had nearly overwhelmed him back in 2063, in the Observation Lounge, when he was trying to remodulate the gun.

Get out! 

_Or what? You'll kill _me_? Like you killed Ensign Lynch?_

_There was no way to save him!_

You didn't even try! 

And he hadn't tried with Data either. Caught between a rock and a hard place, he had decided to sacrifice the crewmen and his second officer, because the alternative was even more unbearable.

And Data was still here, unassimilated. But scarred, scarred perhaps permanently.

He felt the tears blurring in his eyes—a delayed reaction to all the callous butchery. Data saw, and his eyes widened in shock. "Sir?"

Picard shut his eyes to keep the tears from escaping, massaged his temples. "Data. I think I ought to tell you…that I _had_, essentially, abandoned you to the Borg. I thought you had been assimilated."

Data had had emotions for far too short a time to learn how to hide them properly. His face changed, from disbelief to hurt and a dawning anger. The sight cut through Picard like a knife. Data was his friend as well as his second officer, and the captain hated the sudden distrust he saw in the other's eyes.

"But sir," he said, visibly struggling to keep his tone even, respectful to his superior, "when you were Locutus, we came back for you. _I _came back for you. If you recall, Captain, I was one of the ones who beamed over to rescue you."

"I remember, Data." The Captain could feel the headache growing behind his eyes. "I remember all too well. But I was left with no choice. If we had let the Borg assimilate the ship they would have destroyed the whole galaxy."

"Do you think I did not know that?" Data's eyes narrowed, and his mouth thinned. "I was conscious of it every moment in Engineering—and as you know, Captain, an android mind can literally do such a thing."

"Data." Picard had no idea what to say. He wasn't a counselor, was just a ship's captain. And he didn't even pretend not to know that all the ensigns called him the 'Iron Duke' behind his back. Sympathizing was not one of his strong points.

Of course Data knew this. His eyes showed reproach, anger—but no longing for pity. He leaned forward.

"I will not tell Counselor Troi about what happened in Engineering. However, I will tell you. I believe the captain has a right to know the activities of his crewmembers."

Picard winced—not at the sarcasm, for there was none, but because he had been avoiding precisely that question for some days now.

Data's eyes darted from side to side, a disturbingly computerish look of calculation. Then he turned away and stared at a point over Picard's left shoulder. Picard waited in silence.

Finally Data spoke.

"She had me activate my sexuality program." His voice was soft, dull with pain and defeat. "I had to do as she demanded, or she would have known that I was not truly on her side—that I was still trying to help you regain control of the ship."

Picard stared. Of course he knew that Data was fully functional, but somehow he could never think of his second officer in a sexual context.

Apparently the Borg Queen could.

"Data. My God, Data, that's—that's tantamount to rape!"

"It _was _rape, sir." Data's mouth twisted. "I had no wish to be intimate with her. And she used my programming against me. She somehow knew that once the program was active, it would—I would—"

He broke off and began to sob uncontrollably, one arm up to shield his face. Picard watched with growing alarm as Data's shoulders shook, remembering that Data's daughter Lal had died of emotional overload. Surely Data couldn't go into cascade failure over an emotional upheaval?

He reached over and touched Data on the shoulder, lightly. "Data? Should I call Counselor Troi? Or Geordi?"

Data hiccuped. "N-no, sir. I—I do not think that will be necessary." He choked again, then sucked in a deep breath and said desperately, "Sir, I must deactivate the emotion chip."

"You can't, Data. It will only put them in the buffer for later."

Data shook his head angrily. "I cannot deal with them now!"

"Data, I forbid it!" clipped Picard.

Golden eyes narrowed. "Is that an order, sir? Because I am rapidly becoming incapable of controlling my feelings. I may damage something." He choked again and went into a fresh cycle of sobs. Picard watched worriedly as Data's head sank lower and lower, and the sobs became more uncontrollable.

Then they suddenly stopped.

Data's head snapped up, eyes wide. All the lines had smoothed out of his face, though it still glistened with tears. He now had a distant, detached look.

"Data," Picard said sharply, dangerously. "Did you deactivate the emotion chip?"

Data's eyes flicked from side to side as he ran a quick diagnostic. Then he met Picard's eyes and nodded. "Affirmative, sir. But not through any conscious effort on my part. I believe it shut down as part of a failsafe system. I was in danger of overload." He cocked his head to the side, stared down at his damp sleeve. "This is all very interesting."

Picard felt as though he had just been through one of those horrible fairground rides that spun you around and around, upside down and sideways. He put his head in his hands and sighed. "Yes, Data, it is." He paused. "If there is no danger of overload, perhaps you'd better reactivate your emotion chip."

"Yes, sir." Data's mouth thinned. His head twitched. Picard could see the change immediately in the tightness around Data's eyes, the trembling of his mouth before he controlled it. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. "The chip is active. However, I believe I can control myself now, sir."

Picard felt deep empathy for his second officer, but of course didn't know how to show it. He looked away and saw the easel, facing the wall.

"So, Data," he said conversationally, hoping a change of subject would do them both good, "what have you been working on?"

Wrong question. Data's head jerked suddenly. "I am not certain you want to know, sir."

"Well, Data, if you don't want—"

"However, I think you _should _know." Data appeared to reach a decision. He strode across the room with that indefinable, slightly machinelike quality that marked him as other than organic. He stood in front of the easel, and the blur of emotions that crossed his face was too fast for Picard to decipher. Then he looked at Picard and gave a slight nod.

When he saw the face on the canvas Picard felt as though he had been punched in the gut. He could feel his eyes widen as he muttered, "Mon Dieu."

"I am sorry, sir," said Data with an air of apology.

Picard looked into the metal-clouded eyes of the Borg Queen and shuddered. "Data, why on earth would you want to remind yourself of her?"

"My memories do not fade as yours do, sir. I can accurately recall every moment. In fact, I downloaded some of my memories into my personal computer for Counselor Troi to watch." He paused. "The files keep circulating. I thought that if I could…--I believe there is a reason for what humans call a 'confessional'. I believe it does them good. I hoped it could do the same for me."

"And has it?"

Data cocked his head to the side, considering. "I believe so, sir. I wanted to paint her to show the others what I have seen. I will not put the painting on display, Captain, but nevertheless I showed it to Counselor Troi."

"How did she react?"

"She appeared quite overcome. Apparently the intensity of emotions—"

"Yes, I see. Well, Data, I'd advise you to keep that thing under wraps. Not many can understand what we two have undergone—and we wouldn't want to frighten them. God knows they've been through enough already." He gave Data a conspiratorial glance.

Data nodded thoughtfully. "I believe I understand, sir. It is another case where humans do not need the whole truth." A lesson he had learned, painfully, over many years: humans can become frightened or angry when one is too candid with them.

"Exactly." Picard rose and went to stand before the easel, hands clenched at his sides. His heart was still beating far too fast. "What you and I have to remember Data, is that though she hurt us, we won in the end. _You _won, Data." He glared down at the mocking face of the Borg Queen.

Data shook his head. "No, sir. I could not have done it without you. You afforded the distraction I needed." He paused. "You reminded me that we still had a chance of victory. More importantly, sir, your presence reminded me of our talk in Stellar Cartography during the Amargosa incident. How one had to live with one's feelings, no matter what the circumstances—how courage could be an emotion as well." He gazed at Picard frankly. "I was afraid in Engineering, sir."

"Of course you were, Data. Any normal person would be. I certainly was." Picard patted him lightly on the shoulder.

Data smiled. "Thank you, sir."

Picard sighed and shook his head, staring at the painting of She who was All. The brushstrokes were Data's usual even, precise ones, but Picard had no doubt that Counselor Troi could feel the anger emanating off it.

"I wonder whether she will ever stop haunting us," he murmured. "She'll always be there, Data, in my mind at least. A skeleton in my closet."

Data gave him a sharp look. "Indeed, sir. My thought exactly."

Picard ran a finger along the edge of the canvas. "Well, Mr. Data. I would advise you to put this thing away. You'll scare the daylights out of some poor ensign. And I hope you feel better soon."

"I do already, sir. Perhaps crying lifted my spirits." He cocked his head. "Is that a paradox?"

Picard smiled. "No, Mr. Data. Humans have a saying, 'All I need is a good cry'."

"Ah." Data nodded.

"Though I'd advise you to keep talking to Counselor Troi. She's heard just about everything by now. I don't think you can shock her."

"Understood, sir. Will you be sleeping tonight?"

Now it was Picard's turn for a sharp look. "How did you know I wasn't sleeping?"

"I…" Data didn't want to tell him about his medical diagnostics; it might alarm him. "I just knew, sir."

Picard nodded. "Very well, Mr. Data. I shall try to sleep."

"Sir, advise you to go to sickbay if you have trouble."

Picard sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Very well, Mr. Data. I suppose I shall have to take that advice." He straightened, resolutely turning away from the painting. "If you need anything, call someone."

"I will do that, Captain."

Picard nodded to him and went out the door.

Data stood looking at the painting, but for once he felt a sense of triumph mixed with the shame.

"I beat you," he said to it. "You may have assimilated countless millions, but you did not get _me._ Or my captain." He laughed, actually laughed with a hard delight. "I was better than you!"

Still smiling, he put the painting back in the alcove where it belonged.

Picard punched his pillow and scowled. He hated, _hated_, sleeping medicines. Still, he couldn't be a commanding officer without sleep. He already knew from past experience the havoc missing one's REM sleep could wreak. Sighing, he pulled on a bathrobe and went down to sickbay. No sooner had he gotten back then he crawled into bed and enjoyed the first undisturbed sleep he had had for weeks.

The Vulcans arrived the next day. With their help the ship was soon back to normal—as was Worf's _Defiant._ Before he left for Deep Space Nine Worf beamed back onto the _Enterprise _and shook hands with all his friends before giving them a warrior's salute and going on his way.

During the course of the day the Vulcans were scandalized to note that Captain Picard smiled continuously without any apparent reason—an action most illogical for a man whose ship and crew had undergone such a beating. As for Data, he startled Geordi in Engineering by actually…whistling?

But Deanna Troi smiled to herself and basked in the lifted spirits of the crew.

And soon the _Enterprise _streaked away from Earth and toward the stars, trailing the blue field of warp like a triumphant banner.

They had, after all, won.

The End


End file.
